


A Tale of Scars & Moose; Hearts Like Byways, Like Connected Oceans.

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Scars and Moose Works [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Sam, Dead Dean Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, First Love, Forbidden Love, Guilt, Guilty Dean Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Heavy Angst, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, Lost Love, Love, Love Confessions, Lust, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Pain, Please Don't Hate Me, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sad, Sex, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Tissue Warning, Top Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: Now that it's just him, Sam, can only remember all that was before; all that never can be again, and reminisce, which takes him through the darkness, to the sound of the ticking clock.Bonus Fanvid at the start.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: A Tale of Scars and Moose Works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079696
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	A Tale of Scars & Moose; Hearts Like Byways, Like Connected Oceans.

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello Lovelies!_   
>  _So, after watching that gut-wrenching finale for one of my favorite shows, I absolutely had to write something! It took me a few days to process what they did to my bbys! And how awful that finale was, but I have finally been able to calm down enough to type out this fic. I know this isn't my best work, (nor my longest) but it's sort of what came to me, and I don't really have much more that I can' explain, aside from that. I have had a few Sam/Dean fics in the works for a while now. One of them I plan to have go through their childhood, and I may or may not link this fic as a kind of sequel to it, someday, but as of right now this is going to be a stand alone work. It's dark and brutal, but it's basically the only thing I am able to create with my mood being this dark, so I am sorry ahead of time for this, dears! I would have made a fix-it fic, but I just had to get this out of my system, first. I also made the following fanvid, as a way to even out my temperament (not that it worked because my heart is too broken!) so enjoy that as a little added bonus. This show means way too much to me, because I can still remember sitting on my couch watching the pilot when I was 11 years old. It's so near and dear, and to watch it go out so poorly has been a very traumatic experience, indeed._   
> 

_**A Tale of Scars & Moose; Hearts Like Byways, Like Connected Oceans.** _

* * *

> _At the end of true love is death,_
> 
> _and only the love that ends in death_
> 
> _is love._

* * *

It’s like all the **light** in the world has suddenly _eclipsed_ and **_faded_**.

Sam _knows_ this sensation— _this_ **_experience_** —well. It’s accompanied the grounding coalescence of loss and bitter ache in his chest a great **_many_** times, before.

There’s a _finality_ to it this time—a hardened Earth-shattering thing that makes him **shake** with tears and _emotional_ turmoil. And though he’s **experienced** this before, it’s never felt so _final_ , not like **_this_**.

He is curled up in his big brother’s bed, pressed into the **warmth** of the sheets, with _tears_ that leak and roll down his cheeks in little trails.

This pain is immeasurable and all-consuming. It has _settled_ in his gut and lodged there like a **paperweight**.

Sam listens to the sound of his heartbeat in his ears like a _pummeling_ , and is shrouded in the emptiness that is always prominent without _his_ Dean.

It’s difficult ( _impossible_ ) to sleep without his big brother at his hip. ( _Or in the same room_ ) If he searches far enough back in his crippling memories, he can still remember the impossibility of it all, when he first landed at his _college_ _dorm_.

How he’d lay under the **stiff** covers and listen to the silence at his side and _struggle_ to close his eyes— _struggle to_ **_dream_** —because Dean has **always** kept him safe.

Dean’s always made him **_feel_** safe.

Even though in the bunker they have their _own_ rooms, Dean, was still close-by—still a sense of **innate** security.

There _is_ no safety now.

_Anywhere …_

Sam can’t wrap his head around the reality that he’s **never** going to see his big brother again. He’s never going to lay eyes on _his_ Dean until he closes his eyes for the **final** time.

And that _last_ night—their **_final_** night as whole, together humans—might as well have been a **dream**.

It **_feels_** like a dream …

Then again, it _always_ has, because they’ve **_never_** talked about it.

They **_never_** do. It’s always avoidance and eye-quirks. Sometimes, for _days_ , afterward.

But it’s **all** Sam knows. It’s all he’s **_ever_** known … that and the _little_ clock needle …

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

* * *

The clock ticks and Sam can _hear_ it.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

The little needle **pushes** forward, like it _always_ has. Time passes and Sam finds he’s **wide** awake.

All the atmosphere in the world is _still_ and **quiet** , and everything is where it **should** be, yet, Sam, still _feels_ off-kilter.

He tells himself it’s because they aren’t **hunting** ( ** _correction_** : there’s nothing left **_to_** hunt) but deep down he knows it’s not _that_ , either.

Sam never **reveled** in the hunt, never **_enjoyed_** it quite so much as, **_Dean_** _,_ does.

It’s not quite so satisfying as it might have been if he were **built** for hunting—if he were like _Dean_.

Tonight, the bunker is _quiet_ , but its quiet most **days** now, too. Peace is a _foreign_ concept, after years of non-stop _action_ and **_villains_** _to-boot._

It’s quiet **enough** , that it’s stirred a part of Sam that he likes to keep _buried_. A distinct part that has turned **shameful** and he’s learned to feel _gross_ about and cover up, under layers of _hunting_ and **avoidance**.

Closing his eyes, he squeezes the _base_ of his **need** , feeling the pulsation under his fingers, as a shiver floods underneath his skin in a **responsive** wave. It’s a sensation that he knows _well_ … that’s been with him **all** his **_life_**.

And he needs— _just **needs**_ —and wishes against **hope** that it will go away on its _own_. That he doesn’t have to go where he’s **always** gone since he was seven-years-old and _hungry_ for attention.

This life is _lonely_.

It’s **often** lonely and with his brother, it’s _better_. Always just **_better_** … even if its _just_ for a little while.

He throbs in his own fist for **_several_** minutes, unable to calm down, and unwilling to _shower_ under an ice stream like he _should_ go do.

It’s been _four_ _months_ , almost. He’s counted the days, but maybe that’s because he’s always _needed_ it more than Dean.

Always craved and _sought_ after it more …

Because he’s **younger** and more _sensitive_ , and he doesn’t have a string of females _vying_ for him wherever they wander.

Either way, Sam, knows **_better_** than to do _this_ , again. But he feels it’s the only thing to be done, it’s the only way to **feel** whole and _good,_ and not like he’s _faltering_ and **alone**.

Because he’s _never_ alone—there’s always **_Dean_**.

Releasing his _hardness_ , he slides from underneath the covers and ignores the _cold_ floor underneath his feet. He sighs into the bunker air, listening to the plunk of the **ancient** pipes as a surge of water rushes through the **_walls_** of this place.

He’s used to the _creaks_ and **groans** of the age-old bunker; he’s fallen in love with this place and **all** of its _many_ faults.

With a moment of hesitation, Sam, sneaks into Dean’s room, admiring the many collected items within that make it _impassably_ , **_Dean_**. The guns, scattered paperwork, pictures of _them_ Mom and Dad—and the dirtied **clothes** littering the floor.

It _warms_ Sam to the **_bone_**.

Inching closer, Sam, takes in the **sight** of Dean lying there, a _snore_ on his lips, tucked underneath the **disheveled** heap of covers on his bed, and _somewhat_ fitful.

Sam knows Dean _still_ has nightmares—that those nightmares from **_Hell_** have never _fully_ gone away—and it shows in the way Dean is **squirming**.

Rucked-up in his _twisted_ covers, making little noises between the **snores** , and fidgeting, _simultaneously_.

Sam accompanies Dean on the **edge** of the bed, and finds his way _under_ the covers, playing the role of the **_big_** spoon, as he nuzzles in _close_ and **safe** —pressing his nose into the back of Dean’s neck inhaling his _musky_ scent, and **aftershave**.

He smells like _home_ to Sam.

Dean has always **_been_** home, because Sam has never known any **_other_** home than Dean.

The bunker _is_ a home in a sense, but its **hollow** in his bedroom, while it’s _warm_ and **bright** in Dean’s.

Sam can feel the sudden **stiffness** of his big brother’s back, going rigid when he realizes there’s a _presence_ behind him. Sam knows Dean has every **right** to send him away, to tell him, no, but he never _has_ in the past.

Not while actually **_meaning_** it, anyway.

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean mumbles, coming out of his dreams to speak in his low rasp. “You shouldn’t be _in_ here, Sammy …”

Sam stopped _correcting_ Dean regarding his name, eons ago. By this point, it’s just **endearing** and it makes Sam’s stomach broil with _life_ whenever he **_hears_** it.

“I _know_ ,” Sam admits, in his own **whisper** against the shell of Dean’s ear.

It feels like _ages_ since they’ve been **this** close.

Dean makes **_another_** noise, that turns into a _grunt_ when Sam reaches down to **snake** his hand into Dean’s boxers, melding his flesh _against_ Dean’s shaft.

Only in the **covering** shadow of darkness would this kind of _shame_ ever be allowed to exist. Sam’s ashamed of the _closeness_ he’s **always** craved, but he’s more afraid of _never_ having it again.

Dean hisses in his throat and bucks his hips **forward** in a lurch, his breath coming out in a heaved pant.

“ ** _Please_** , Dean …” Sam whispers, while trying to keep himself **grounded**. He hates having to beg like this—having to plead and ache for _months_ at a time until he almost completely loses his mind—but the alternative is _living_ in this shame, every day.

And that’s **more** than Sam can rightly **_bear_**.

“F-Fuck! _Sammy!”_ Dean’s _more_ awake now. Sam can tell by the way his **breathing** heightens and his words clip.

Sam points his hips in a way he _knows_ that Dean will be able to **_feel_** the ache he’s _sporting_ —the hollow need that he **suffers** with every night that they _pretend_ to be normal.

Dean makes a _noise_ , fishes Sam’s hand **out** of his boxers, and _turns_ around, connecting their lips in one **sweeping** kiss.

It’s _not_ soft and sweet, but steely and full of **teeth** and _flesh_ and **_spit_**.

When Dean gives in, he always gives in **_hard_** and Sam’s there to take it and _revel_ in what he’s given. What he can **take** from these moments. These _selfish_ little proclivities.

Dean **_punishes_** him with a _bite_ to the lower portion of his lips, drawing blood that **melds** with their shared spit, and Sam keens like a _puppy_ , gasping when Dean **treads** a hand down his nightshirt and cups the erect _prod_ of flesh presented between Sam’s thighs.

 _“That_ **_bad_** _,_ Sammy? You need me that **_bad_** , huh?” Dean croaks with a _tight_ sound in his throat, that has Sam’s mind **spinning** cartwheels.

“Yeah, De. It’s been **_so_** long since I’ve … since **_we’ve_** …” he can’t really bring himself to _finish_ that thought, because it **_hurts_**.

Dean blames himself for _making_ Sam this way, but it was never really ( _only_ ) Dean’s _fault_. Sam can see his **own** fault in this mess as well.

Dean was like his makeshift _father_. Because, Dad, couldn’t really be called one in anything but **_title_**.

Dean kissed his boo-boos, held him when he _couldn’t_ sleep, and taught him what it was to **love**.

The touches were how it started. Hands under pants, while sharing a _shitty_ motel bed. Skin against **skin** when Sam was too **_sick_** to leave bed and Dean hadn’t _cared_ if he came down with the **illness** , too. He’d strip and give Sammy _comfort_ with his **skin** and his **_hands_**.

There were _bath_ times where Dean would **lather** him in soap and _rinse_ him by hand. And there were nights in the bed they shared next to _Dad’s_ , where Sam **_first_** discovered what it was to _masturbate_.

Dean was older and he’d clear out the **pipes** sometimes. Sam would _watch_ and **listen** , while also _pretending_ to be asleep.

The _touches_ , sometime later, meant to _‘show him how’_ turned into **little** kisses that Sam would **steal** and Dean would **_regret_**.

Every time they did _anything_ when they got older, Dean, would spend the following night _guilt-drinking_ and inevitably wind up **fucking** some random girl in order to _forget_ their **_carnal_** sins.

Sam would _cry_ himself to sleep that night and they wouldn’t _talk_ about it. **_Ever_**.

It was always bottled up and left to _rage_ underneath their **combined** skins. Sam’s, _since_ , learned to use his **_own_** hand over the years, rather than send Dean _further_ into his own distress about their sinful **escapism** into each other.

But it’s been, **_too_** _,_ long again, and Sam is beyond _desperate_ for Dean’s **affection**.

Dad taught Dean that _emotions_ equate to **weakness**. And love is much the _same_. Sam feels it, too, the **wracking** guilt that squeezes his soul _whenever_ they find this comfort.

Dean _might_ have been the one to **touch** him first, way back _when_ , but he’s been the **pursuant** ever since— ** _not_** _Dean_.

Dean eyes him gruffly and _fingers_ his shirt, very evidently trying to tamp himself **down** and keep it all together.

“We need to get you a **_girl_** , Sammy,” Dean presses for what must be the _millionth_ time. Sam’s always going to reject the idea of a female, because none of them can touch him like _Dean_ touches him …

But he’s **always** kept himself in check ( _or tried to_ ) and stored away his emotions _whenever_ he possibly can in the process.

“Don’t **_want_** a girl, Dean …” he growls back and pushes his erection _further_ into Dean’s cupped palm, trying to gain some _much- **needed** _friction from the ordeal.

In the _next_ second, Sam, finds himself **pushed** into the cushiony, memory foam _mattress_ , with the bulk of his brother on top of **him**. It’s that warm, _rushed_ feeling that he’s craved these **past** months.

The incessant _press_ of his big brother, and the strong hulk of his muscles. Even though Sam is taller, Dean, can still wrestle him and _(occasionally)_ **win**.

Right now, _Sam_ , isn’t fighting as Dean caresses his cheek and **nips** at his jaw, exploring his open skin in every _feasible_ way.

“You shouldn’t **want** me, Sammy,” Dean concedes into his ear, causing little _chills_ to spiral up his spine.

“M’ always gonna **_want_** you, De,” Sam persists, because in the cover of darkness, in the **_dead_** of night, Sam, is _always_ going to be able to say his **true** thoughts and feelings.

This is common _ground_ and **_fair_** game. It’s the **_only_** time the _truth_ comes out and the **dark** crevices are bare between them.

Dean’s roughened _out_ around the edges, over the years. Toughened with _time_ and **experience** , which Sam’s taken _note_ of, with fondness.

After, _Hell_ , Dean, returned with a **strengthened** penchant for dominance _between_ the sheets. There used to be a _calm_ , affection—almost an **_innocence_** —that Dean _portrayed_ whenever they climbed into bed together, but Sam hasn’t seen **_that_** in _years_.

Hell, _damaged_ Dean, irreparably, and it’s **this** demented thing between them, that brought Dean’s soul _back_ to him from that **darkness** , at the time. Sam had spent _countless_ nights with Dean wrapped up in his arms, _giving_ and **taking** until the _spread_ of **darkness** in Dean faded _enough_ to allow him momentary lapses of peace.

It restored **_some_** of, Dean, though not _all_ of him— _never_ all of him.

Dean **_never_** thanked him, but that’s not **why** he did this.

Sam didn’t want anything **_more_** than his big brother, in _his_ bed and at _his_ side.

“Fuckin’ hell, _Sammy_. I really did _wrong_ by you, huh?” Dean panders, with a wry look on his face, when he comes up for air.

Sam releases a _frustrated_ noise. Something between a sigh and a _moan_ , and fists Dean’s shirt, tugging it _overhead_.

Dean _reciprocates_ , relieving Sam of his own in turn, and steals **another** rough-heat kiss.

“It’s not _wrong_ , De,” Sam tries to convince him for the _umpteenth_ time, but Dean **snorts** and nudges Sam’s cheek.

“That’s the damn _problem_ , Sammy. I’ve fucked ya up _so_ badly, you can’t even see **right** from _wrong_ , no more.”

Sam goes to try and _shove_ Dean down in order to climb on top, but Dean avoids his **attempt** , cupping him with a _renewed_ vigor, in one of his **strong** , capable hands.

Sam keens and his package throbs _mightily_ in Dean’s palm, and he’s ready to **burst** , even without much _persuasion_.

“Easy there, _Sammy_ , you know I’ll take **care** of you …” Dean reminds him, with the dark _tint_ in his eyes that only comes from one place.

The **demonic** side of Dean. The tiny _twist_ that will forever stay in Dean’s **soul**. It may be cured, but that, _too_ , is still in there. Deviant acts **draw** it to the surface.

“You **_promise_** _?”_ Sam asks, through clenched teeth as he surveys Dean. The _need_ that’s been thriving in him for days is fit to burst right now and Sam can’t take much **more** of these rough kisses and fervent _whispers_ from Dean.

He just **_needs_** right now.

He needs his big brother to take _care_ of it, like he **_always_** does when it’s _this_ bad.

Dean’s thumb finds the **bulbous** , sensitive head through the _cotton_ and primes it in circles, making Sam **_almost_** cum— ** _almost_**. Dean knows just how _far_ he can push, before Sam will **_soar_** proximally over that edge.

“I haven’t thrown you **out** , have I?” Dean quirks an eyebrow, questioningly.

Sam emits a groan and shakes his head, _“No,”_ he sighs.

Dean releases Sam’s cock and hooks his thumbs into the **waistband** of his boxers, peeling them evenly down his hips. Sam watches, _impatiently_ as Dean sheds his own bottoms, leaving them both skin to skin when Dean takes his **position** on top of him, back up.

“Make me _yours_ , De, I just want to be **_yours_** _,”_ Sam pleads, and it’s the same _insecure_ voice he’s used since the first time—since **before** the first time.

It took **six** _whole_ **_months_** of pleading for this when he was twelve, until Dean _finally_ gave in to him. Sam can remember that night … the loss of his **_true_** virginity. The _fullness_ it gave him. But he can **also** remember the _ache_ , too.

_Always the **ache** …_

Dean had _held_ him after, silent and **conflicted** —and the next night Dean had gone _out_ , picked up a **girl** , and came back **_reeking_** of her sex.

Sam didn’t **ask** for a long time, after that, it hurt _too_ much to know Dean had to find **comfort** somewhere else, to get _over_ their sins.

It hurt like **_hell_**.

 _Still does_.

 _Always_ **_will_** _…_

“You are **_mine_** , Sammy,” Dean softens, just a little around the _edges_. Enough to make it so that Sam’s **heart** beats steady and poignantly for a _moment_ , and he **fills** with heat.

Dean _crushes_ their lips back together and grinds his own hot, length down against Sam’s, letting the rough texture of their needs blend together and **throb** in tandem.

It makes Sam _hot_ and **achy** all over and he shivers with the _thrill_ of it. His skin is like _fire_ and his blood and veins like _ice_ and **_chill_** …

“Then _don’t_ …” Sam picks up his courage and tries _again_ , “Don’t go out and find a _girl_ , tomorrow … let it just be **_us_**. _Please, De, **please** …”_

Dean’s posture goes _stiff_ and his eyes **darken** from the combination of _lust_ and **cognizance** toward what Sam’s asking. What he’s never **dared** to ask for, before.

Not even when he gave Dean his _virginity_ and wanted to die when Dean **still** went out and found a girl the next night. Not even, all these _years_ that he’s watched and **broken** knowing Dean’s always going to want to _hide_ this—to **_bury_** it.

It’s not fucking **_fair_**.

And it **_never_** has been.

“That’s not how _this_ works, Sammy,” Dean rasps, warningly.

Sam’s **eyes** rim with tears and he feels his **_heart_** cinch tight, and he _wonders_ if it might explode.

“It **_should_** be,” he reasons, as a kind of last-ditch effort.

Dean uses his _hands_ to push on Sam’s thighs, spreading him wide, while keeping him **presented** in a prime position for Dean to **_take_**.

“You still **_mine_** _,_ _Sammy?”_ Dean coaxes, ignoring Sam’s last words entirely, while pushing a finger up inside of Sam, filling him and **teasing** him at the same time.

It makes Sam _squirm_ and **_hiss_** , unprepared for this sudden _assault_ near his prostate _(though Dean knows better than to press directly on it or else he’d cum)_ keeping him on the **edge** of release.

“Y-Yes, **_De_** _!”_ Sam’s lost _count_ of how many times Dean has asked him this _question_ over the years.

Too many. That’s the answer.

And Sam **_always_** tells him the truth—always tells him that he **_is_**.

“I’m _yours_ , too, Sam. It don’t matter what _I_ need to do to get **by** , okay?”

Sam swallows around a _lump_ , trying to fight **back** his tears, while _nodding_ his head. He gives in. Because its all he **_can_** do.

**_Give_ ** _in._

“I _know_ ,” Sam whispers, “I just wish you didn’t **have** to … I _wish_ … I just wish you didn’t **regret** me so much.”

Dean _stills_ his finger and seems to be **mulling** something over for a _second_. Maybe it’s **shock** —maybe its some _other_ emotion, but Sam can’t seem to **_decipher_** it.

Almost _immediately_ , Dean, is lubing his hand with spit, _slicking_ up his erection, and pushing **_home_** in Sam.

Dean’s well-endowed, _thick,_ and **hot** like a pulse in Sam—and it **fills** him to the brim when they’re _conjoined_ like this. It’s like they share **one** heart— _or one skin_ —and it’s the **closest** Sam can ever feel to Dean.

They _both_ make loud _guttural_ noises when they’re reconjoined. It’s thrilling and _all-consuming_ —and it makes Sam tear up. Because it’s been **_too_** long.

**_Way_ ** _too long._

And he **never** wants to go so _long_ without his big brother, again.

He _can’t_ —he doesn’t **_want_** to.

 _“ **Regret**?_ _Sammy …”_ Dean groans, as he tries to _steady_ himself. Sam can see him **visibly** clenching his fist around the blankets nearby. “The _only_ thing I regret is that I wasn’t **better** for **_you_**. **_Stronger_** … Better able to _raise_ you right. I never **meant** to raise you to _need_ **_this_** … to need **_me_** … I fucked you _up_ , Sammy … Can’t you **_see_** how I’ve _fucked_ you up?” Dean cracks and frays around the edges and Sam doesn’t know what to say.

He’s _always_ seen **himself** as the problem. He’s always felt in his _heart_ that he’s damaged and that **Dean** is repulsed by all of _his_ inner-damage. That, **_that_** is what sends him into _countless_ women’s beds. He knew that Dean _blamed_ himself for _giving **in**_ —but not that he blamed himself for **_all_** of it.

For Sam’s inner- _twistedness_.

It’s _difficult_ — ** _challenging_** —for Sam to think with Dean _buried_ inside of him, but Sam **strains** to do just that. Because it’s _important_ —this moment is **important** , because it’s the first time he’s _ever_ gotten Dean to speak to him about this.

So **_candidly_**.

So _emotionally_ _…_

And he’s **tried** so many times before.

“De, that’s _not_ true. You didn’t **make** me this way. I’m the one that’s _fucked_ myself up. And I love you **_because_** it’s _you_ , Dean. I love you **_because_** you’re my brother and I **_need_** you.”

Dean trembles above him, then _draws_ back only to shove the bulk of himself **back** in.

They both make a **_loud_** keen—and Sam has to _loosen_ his sphincter muscles to prevent the wrack of pain that would _otherwise_ be flooding him right now.

Because he’s out of _practice_. Four months in a long time to go unfulfilled—to just **stew** in his wants and needs _without_ reprieve.

 _“I’m_ the big brother. I was **meant** to— _ungh_ —to make you **right** and _normal_ … Sammy—” Dean loses himself to the pleasure for a second, and is blinded by the contracting jolt of his flexing muscles.

Sam can almost hear the **waver** in Dean’s voice as he tries to come back around, between his _own_ mind-wrecking thrusts.

“I was **never** gonna be— _uhh_ — **normal** _, De!”_ Sam dribbles pre-cum onto his lower abdomen, as Dean picks up the pace.

 _“Sammy!”_ Dean **levers** down a hand, and gives Sam a few _hard_ , **rough** tugs against his **erection** —and that’s _it_.

Sam’s _cumming_ — ** _hard_**.

In a **blinding** wave of light and _tenderness_ , he’s **lost** to Dean’s touch. Just the way he’s **always** been, before. And Dean’s moaning against his neck and skin, while _kissing_ him with little flourishes of his head.

It’s all _so_ _much!_

Sam fills with Dean’s _seed_ when he, too, **cums** seconds later, and he feels the immense heat as it **makes** a pool deep up inside of him.

He _screams_ Dean’s name and he doesn’t **care** how loud he is, because only the empty _bunker_ walls can hear.

It’s a **_strangled_** cry—and Dean _matches_ it, _pitch_ for **_pitch_** as they **both** wrack with pleasure and _shiver_ through it.

When it’s _over_ and they’re coming **down** from the guilt and the high, Sam, lays in his _brother’s_ arms and blinks through his hazy vision as it **comes** back into focus.

He doesn’t know if _anything_ has been resolved, but he knows that **Dean** is finally aware of exactly what this means to him. It means the _world_ , even if they **don’t** talk about it.

Even if _tomorrow_ , Dean’s, going to find a **woman** to bury tonight’s _shame_ and _**guilt**_ in.

It’s **that** thought that crosses his mind, when _Dean_ speaks up—startling him from his inner-mantra.

“I _won’t_ , Sammy,” Dean sighs, still **winded** from his laboring.

Sam tilts his head toward, Dean, and gives him a questioning, half-dazed stare. _“Huh?”_ he whimpers out, still _lost_ to his ecstasy and bliss, knowing it won’t _last_ forever, so he needs to bask in it while he **still** can.

“I won’t seek out a _girl. **Promise** ,”_ he utters, with a hitched tone that lets Sam _know_ that he’s serious.

He **really** means that, this time.

Sam turns _in_ toward, Dean, and searches his eyes, trying to **acclimate** himself to the loss of his high—and the _gain_ of his brother’s word.

 _“Really?”_ Sam asks, still **disbelieving** what he’s hearing.

Dean **ruffles** his hair and kisses the side of his temple. _“Really,_ Sammy. There’s no more _use_ denying this. At least, not with … with **_Cas_** gone,” Dean _chokes_ on the name and Sam’s heart plummets, because he tries not to **think** about Castiel.

The bunker seems _emptier_ without him in it.

_“De—”_

“It’s just _us_ , now. We’re it, and … I was still **hoping** by staying away, by sleeping _separately_ you’d somehow find normalcy, **elsewhere** … but … if this _is_ what you want …”

“It **_is_** , Dean. It’s all I’ve **_ever_** wanted,” Sam relays in earnest.

Dean nods his head. “Then I won’t try to _fight_ it anymore. It’s me and **you** , Sammy. **_Just_** you and me.”

Sam allows a _smile_ to tug at the corner of his mouth, and the elation he feels can’t be put into words. He’s fought for so long to be with Dean. To have Dean **accept** this for _what_ it is— ** _theirs_**. And he doesn’t think things could **get** any better.

Even _without_ , Cas. Even if this is all they **ever** have—at least he’s _not_ alone.

At least Dean’s **_here_**.

 _Warm_. **Real**. _And **here**._

Those are his _last_ fleeting thoughts before he **finds** sleep, in Dean’s arms. Nestled _safe_ and **secure** , thinking about the _countless_ nights they **might** share together in this very room that smells of _Dean_ and home.

_Home and Dean._

Of _memories_ and **love**.

_Warmth. Light._

Sweet dreams **ensue** and even Dean doesn’t fidget in his nightmares. There is just _peace_.

_And **quiet**. _

_All night long._

* * *

The incessant _ticking_ of the wall clock prevents Sam from **falling** to sleep.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

That and the fact that **_Dean_** isn’t beside him.

Just _yesterday_ in **_this_** **_very_** **_bed_** , Dean, promised him _forever_. Or at least the **span** of their _lifetime_ , of it.

Now, Sam, is **_alone_** without Dean and without his own _heart_ to guide him along.

It’s not the **_two_** of them against the world—it’s just **_Sam_**.

Dean left him _behind_ —Dean left him and told him to live **_on_** in his wake.

He doesn’t _know_ how to do that, **anymore**. How is he _supposed_ to live on, without the **person** he loves?

This is _worse_ than a hole being **punched** through his chest. This is more like a _spear_ being used to **gut** him and fish out all the _organs_ , whole.

This is even **worse** than when he would spend the _night_ in his own bed, in his own **_room_** because Dean didn’t _want_ to admit that they **belonged** in one bed.

Worst of all, there’s this _tug_ in his belly, that reminds him of his **_need_**. His _arousal_ —and he feels so **broken** and _wrong_ when he reaches into his **boxers** to take care of it on his **_brother’s_** bed—without his _brother_ , **_here_**.

It’s **warm** and the sheets are _soft_. The blankets and pillow still smell so **strongly** of Dean, that if he shuts _off_ his thoughts and closes his eyes, that in the **midst** of deftly stroking himself, he can almost _pretend_ that Dean’s with him.

That Dean is here in his **bunker** bedroom, with all of his _protective_ , big-brother mojo, ready to push him **into** the mattress and take **_care_** of it, one last time.

Sam sobs, _brokenly_ into the pillow when he feels himself **spill**.

It’s _quick_ —and it’s **_empty_** —but it does the _job_ , and he burrows his face into the side of the pillow as he grunts out his **shame** and self-loathing, because he knows right **_here_** , in this moment that he’s _not_ going to be able to do **this**.

He’s _lived_ with the shame of being in **_love_** with Dean for all these **_years_**.

When he had the **ability** to go through college and seek out a _normal_ life, things were **_different_**. There was **_hope_**.

But, Sam, can’t see a _light_ at the end of **this** tunnel. He doesn’t feel _anything_ , but a temporary escape from the **ocean** of mounting pain that just keeps _forming_ in his chest. Accumulating like a _senseless_ , **profound** , hurdling **_ache_**.

Retracting his hand, Sam, feels the **squish** of his seed. It’s wet and _sticky_ , and the realization that it was his **_own_** hand— _not Dean’s_ —that caused it to _spill_ , only threatens to undo him, all **_over_** again.

He made a _promise_ —but he can’t **_keep_** it.

Dean _is_ his home, his **_light_** , and the tunnel is too long and dark without, **_Dean,_** at the end of it.

Dean just _promised_ to be his forever. After so **_long_** —after so many _nights_ of feeling so damned **worthless** —and now, now the _burning_ ache is too fucking deep.

No matter how **many** times he tries to surface from this **_endless_** ocean of pain, it doesn’t **_help_**.

Nothing **_matters_**.

Sam doesn’t _want_ to be here, alone. If **Cas** were here, it might be **_bearable_**. If _Jack_ were … If anyone at **_all_** were here—things might not be **_as_** bleak—but there’s **_nothing_**.

_No one._

_Just **him**._

Sam wipes away his _tears_ and pushes off of Dean’s bed, trekking the path he knows **well** , into the bathroom.

He _removes_ his soiled boxers and **climbs** into the shower, allowing the _water_ to stream down overhead. And he sighs into the **void** as he lingers in-between silent tears and _heartbroken_ sobs.

Even from where he **sits** on the cold _porcelain_ , he can still **_feel_** Dean’s _hands_ on his skin. He can still feel the **rough** , possessive kisses that claim his lips—and it _strips_ him to the **bone** , delves him right down to the _quick_.

_It’s brutal, everlasting agony._

**_Sheer_ ** _, brutalization._

Sam, sniffles and _stands_ , having lost track of time under the semi-warm stream. He’s _shivering_ and **cold** , but he doesn’t **_care_**.

He towels himself _off_ and opens the cabinet, and eyes Dean’s pills.

Dean used to give him _one_ or **two** , when the was younger and the _pain_ from a hunt was **fierce** as hell. Dad would get a prescription filled for them _all_ the time. He’d leave it with _Dean_ and if they needed it, they’d eek it out **between** themselves.

But only if the pain was _bad_ enough.

Sam’s **_current_** pain is well-past _endurable_. And the last thing he **ever** wants to do again, is **_feel._**

He made a _promise_ , to Dean, that he **_can’t_** keep.

Maybe Dean will be _furious_ with him—maybe he’ll **understand**.

Either way, Sam, will be _back_ with him soon.

That’s already **_decided_**.

Sam returns to _Dean’s_ bedroom, takes the pills _one_ at a time. Bringing back a **different** memory for every pill that he swallows. With the _bottle_ empty, Sam, lays down, **curled** in the sheets and blankets, _drinking_ in the scent of **Dean** , telling himself that it all will be _different_ , in heaven.

 _Things_ will be **different** —if they can only have that **_forever_** Dean _promised_ him.

Because it’s too cruel a fate, that Dean **finally** accepted what they were, only to be _taken_ away the following night—and Sam can’t _fathom_ it.

He just **_can’t_**.

One of the last **conscious** thoughts he has, is that Dean’s room isn’t _light_ anymore—Dean made his bedroom **feel** like a light and like **_home_** —without **_him_** , it’s just as _hollow_ as Sam’s own bunker room was **yesterday**.

So, when the **light** comes, Sam, _follows_ it, fading from this life and towards the path that leads him **_home_**.

Towards the _impala_ —towards **_Dean_**.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._


End file.
